A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffering, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music.
(Soren Kierkegaard)

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Child

She ranyards ahead of themfirst out of the blocksfluid limbsthe tiny athleteperfect form without instructionthey ran toono course, no track, no destinationbut plain to see - there wasno flailing of body partsonly smooth locomotionthe open skythe empty long hallwaywide space begging for definitionnoise needing to be madegames needing to be playedlaughter to be brought forthsinging erupting, no audiencenecessaryWhen,which day, what hourdid we forsake this simple playground for the anxious and barren wastelandwe now stumble through?